


bits and pieces

by zeraparker



Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Reminiscing, talks about 2014 season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 16:05:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16519685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeraparker/pseuds/zeraparker
Summary: Set in Gordes the weekend of the US GP, assuming that Jev went with Andre before Portimao.Andre finds out Jev still cares about Dan.





	bits and pieces

**Author's Note:**

> So, I just wanted to write something comforting Dan in a way, and since I don't really ship Dan with anyone in the F1 paddock right now, I'm doing some second hand comforting.  
> There's some discussion about the 2014 season, including Jules' accident, so please click away if you don't like reading about that.  
> It is fact that Andre was in Suzuka 2014 (nightly Insta stalking I did), but everything else is made up.

“You should put that down,” Andre says as he snuggles into bed, curling around Jev's side. The screen of Jev's smart phone is illuminating his face in a blueish hue.

“In a bit,” Jean-Eric says distractedly, flicking through more chat windows, instagram feeds. Andre falls asleep to the faint blips of Jev's phone.

 

 

When he wakes up some time later, the room is dark, the bed next to him empty. Andre groggily reaches across the mattress, but there's no warmth still sticking to the sheets. He sighs and rolls onto his back, but there's no light coming from the small gap beneath the bathroom door.

It takes him a moment to notice the slight swaying of the curtains in front of the glass doors leading out to the patio, the door not entirely closed. With a grunt, he rolls out of bed, his bare toes curling on the cool floor boards.

There's the blue shine of Jean-Eric's smart phone again, and the reddish glow of a cigarette. He's turned away from the house, sitting on the sofa on the patio, the fluffy collar and shoulders of his bathrobe just so visible over the back of the couch.

Andre turns around, gathers the warm blankets and duvet from the bed in his arms, nudges the glass doors open. It's cold enough outside to send a shower of goosebumps up his naked back as he steps around the side of the couch. Jean-Eric startles slightly, looking up at him with a frown, his phone at his ear, listening intently. He lifts his arm with the cigarette out of the way as Andre dumps the blankets onto the couch, crawling onto it next to Jev. He snatches the cigarette from him, taking a long drag as he leans into Jean-Eric's side, feeling Jev's arm come up around his shoulders to make him rest comfortably against him as Andre arranges the blankets, feeling the cold skin of Jean-Eric's legs against his.

“No, Mark, seriously. Go to him. Yeah, that's exactly why it's good if it's you: you're not part of the team. Please. Yes, I mean it. Ok. Yes. Call me, okay? Bye.”

Andre listens to the bits of conversation, the tinny noise the speakers of Jean-Eric's phone makes too screechy for him to understand. He doesn't even want to eavesdrop, it's not about him being nosey. “You okay?” he asks when Jean-Eric has ended the call, putting the phone down on the arm rest of the couch.

Jean-Eric steals back the cigarette, taking a long drag from it, exhaling slowly. “Dan punched a hole through the wall in the motorhome.”

For a moment, Andre doesn't know what he's talking about, before his sleepy mind catches up, the racing events of the evening they watched on TV coming back to him. He winces. “Can't really blame him.”

“No,” Jean-Eric muses, staring into the dark garden. He picks up his phone, thumbs through a couple whatsapp messages, then holds it up for Andre to see. _i want out_ , it reads, Dan's name at the top of the screen, the time stamp dating it an hour ago, a short message without context, the one before some nonsensical small talk from a couple weeks ago.

“You care about him,” Andre says, not really knowing what else would be fitting. He can't read Jean-Eric's mood, and it unsettles him. Jealousy rears its ugly head. “You still care about him.”

Jean-Eric takes a last drag from the cigarette, leaning forwards to stump it out in the glass ashtray on the table, tossing his phone onto the table top next to it. “He doesn't deserve this.”

“Neither did you, but look how they cared.” Andre can't help being angry, even though he can feel Jean-Eric tense up next to him, his body language becoming defensive. “Look how Dan cared.” It's a low blow, but Andre refuses to feel bad about it.

Jean-Eric glares at him through the darkness. “Dan cared.”

“They almost destroyed you,” Andre argues, the rage he's felt on Jean-Eric's behalf, ever since he's gained glimpses into his past bubbling to the surface. He sits up straight to better meet Jean-Eric's eyes, shivering when the blanket slides down his torso, exposing his naked chest to the chilly night air.

“Dan didn't,” Jean-Eric says heatedly, “No, listen,” he interrupts when Andre opens his mouth to argue back. “Dan cared. And I cut him out, because I couldn't stand him trying to help me. He worried about me, and I hated every second of it.”

“Because he thought you were weak.”

“Because he saw something worth saving when all I wanted to do was disappear.”

The words hang heavy in the air between them, despite how quietly Jean-Eric had spoken them. They don't usually talk about that time in Jean-Eric's life, and Andre is surprised that he's willing to bring it up now, here. Averting his eyes, Jean-Eric reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the table, shakes out another one but doesn't light it, just turns it around aimlessly between his fingers, somewhere to channel his nervous energy.

“You want to know how I felt like? You want to know what it's like sitting on the grid feeling dizzy because you haven't eaten all day and not knowing if you make it to the end of the race? You want to know what it feels like not taking any drinks into a car to save another two kilos?” Jean-Eric isn't loud, isn't angry, his tone almost devoid of emotion. “And then Jules crashed and for a year or so I wished that would have been me, because he had so much more to give and all I felt like was a waste of space.” He leans sideways to pick up the lighter from the table, the warm glow of the flame illuminating his face for a second. “Dan doesn't deserve that.”

“I was in Suzuka, you know,” Andre says after the silence has stretched for a while, watching Jean-Eric smoke quietly. Jean-Eric's eyes snap up, his brow narrowing. “They'd given me a photog pass, so I hung around the paddock and the track all weekend with my cameras. I saw the accident.”

Andre remembers it like it was yesterday, the feeling of being drenched to the core in the rain, the sound of the cars in the spray, the ever darker sky that made him adjust the settings on his cameras. The excitement of the Force India car in the gravel, a taste of the ever trickier conditions, Adrian out but safe. He'd taken pictures of the marshalls in their vests busy like bees around the stranded car, of the way the rescue vehicle had sunk into the wet gravel as it was picking up the Force India. He remembers the sudden flurry of red and white, the sickening crunch of carbon fibre against steel, the screams of the crowd and haste around him. The realisation of what had happened and the sinking feeling in his stomach that this was _bad_.

“When you have a crash, it never feels as bad as it looks. You don't think about it even when you see the pictures. It's just something that happened. You push it away or you can't go back in the car, right? That day just... I couldn't look away.” It takes effort to unclench his fingers from the fists Andre had unconsciously balled them into, smooth out the blanket on his lap. “I had nightmares for weeks. My next races absolutely sucked because I couldn't get in the right frame of mind. It was the final spark I needed to admit to myself that how I was living, racing 200 percent and nothing else, everything else on hold, wasn't what I wanted to do any more.”

When he looks back up to meet Jean-Eric's gaze, he can see that he's crying, quiet tears running down his cheeks. He reaches up, takes the barely touched cigarette from his mouth to rest it on the edge of the ash tray, then drags Jean-Eric down deeper into the blanket, until they're curled up tight around each other. Jean-Eric's cheeks are wet against his, his breathing laboured. Andre isn't good at this, he knows, so he just holds onto him, fingers whisper-soft in his hair.

“That year sucked,” Jean-Eric says eventually, his voice full of heartfelt anger. The cigarette has burnt down to a cold line of ash on the table. Jean-Eric rubs his hand over his face, then presses a soft kiss against Andre's throat. “But I'm glad it brought me here.”

“Me too.” Andre squeezes Jean-Eric's shoulder tight. He thinks for a moment. “Maybe we could take the car, drive to Nice, one of these days? See Jules? I've never been,” he suggests carefully, not sure what Jean-Eric thinks.

Jean-Eric shakes his head. “There's no grave. They gave his ashes to the sea.” He falls quiet, his palm rubbing circles over Andre's chest. “But we could go to Nice. There's a little café Jules and I went for coffees whenever I visited. It's a beautiful city. I could show you.”

“I'd like that,” Andre agrees.

The phone beeps on the table. Jean-Eric uncurls himself just enough to snatch it up, snuggling up close before he unlocks the screen, looking at the message. “Mark's with Dan. That's good.” He locks the phone, his hand sinking back into the blankets. A little more tension drains from his shoulders.

“We could go to Monaco too. I've got the spare keys to James' apartment.” Andre stops, not sure if he's overstepping. “You could go see Dan.”

It's Jean-Eric's turn to raise an eyebrow. “You sure?”

Andre snorts. “I might not _like_ him,” he says, leaning in to bite at Jean-Eric's earlobe, making him squirm. “But I'm not going to tell you who you can or can't meet.”

Jean-Eric hums in agreement. “Yeah, we can do that. Maybe when James is there too.”

“What, you won't let me house crash his flat and then act like it wasn't us?” Andre says with fake astonishment in his voice, receiving a small chuckle from Jean-Eric.

Jean-Eric sighs, sliding deeper into the blankets. He nuzzles against Andre's face, his cheeks still slightly damp. Andre turns his head, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek bone, tasting salt when he licks his lips. His fingers run along the curve of Jean-Eric's neck, dipping under the collar of his bathrobe, then into the short hairs at the back of his neck. Jean-Eric seems calmer now, his breathing even. Andre can feel his eyes drooping, basking in the warmth inside the cocoon of blankets, the chilly night air that's nipping at his nose and cheeks a comfortable counterpoint.

“We should go back to bed,” Jean-Eric murmurs eventually, but makes no move to get up.

Andre squeezes his shoulder. “It's almost morning anyway,” he replies, stifling a yawn. His eyes are heavy. The couch is wide and squashy, and it wouldn't be the first night he's fallen asleep outside, awoken by the morning sun or some curious bird nipping at his hair.

“You're a bad influence,” Jean-Eric says quietly. He tugs himself tighter against Andre's chest.

Andre smiles, kissing him again without opening his eyes, feeling the gentle pull of sleep. “The worst.”

 


End file.
